Baxter Dury

Tuesday 3 September 2002 21.38 EDT
First published on Tuesday 3 September 2002 21.38 EDT

Baxter Dury has performed live only once before: when he sang My Old Man in tribute to his father, at the public wake following Ian's death. Many of the family friends who gathered at that gig are now packed into the tiny Metro for his debut singing his own songs. That would be enough to give anyone stage fright; add to that the fact that Dury's girlfriend is in labour in hospital, and the poor man is understandably a bundle of nerves.

For the duration of his show, he looks like a rabbit caught in headlights; squashed between two backing singers, he has no chance of escaping the glare. He wobbles his head back and forth while he sings, as though trying to shake off a nightmare. If he ever relaxes into playing live, you imagine he could make quite an entertaining raconteur; for now, it's all he can do to intone "Fucking scary" over and over. Most songs end with him barking "Awwoight" in a voice of strained enthusiasm. You have to wonder who exactly this impersonation of Michael Barrymore is supposed to reassure.

At least his ordeal doesn't last long: he plays just seven songs from his album Len Parrot's Memorial Lift, then shoots off stage before anyone can shout for more. Those songs have a gorgeous, otherworldly quality on record; fighting against one of the shoddiest sound systems in London, they lose much of their ethereal elegance. But in becoming more robust, they gain a spine-tingling, epic sweep. Oscar Brown and Fungus Hedge positively soar, driven by Adrian Utley's spiralling electric guitar and Norman Watt-Roy's treacly basslines.

It is hard to watch Dury without looking for glimpses of his father; the ebullient presence of the Blockheads' bassist in his band makes it impossible. You catch Ian in Baxter's cockney speaking voice, and in the glorious, angular stomp of Gingham Smalls, with its repeated instruction to "Be yourself," a sentiment Ian wholeheartedly endorsed. But when Dury sings Len Parrot's Memorial Lift, his high, ghostly voice floating mysteriously above muted, dreamy keyboards and mermaid-call guitar, you would never know the two men were related. It is this idiosyncrasy that suggests Dury, unlike so many pop offspring, has a good chance of finding success in his own right. Whether or not he will ever play a gig in a state other than complete terror is another matter.